By Jody Worsham
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
...And a Half!
By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for candles and a fire extinguisher
Remember when you were a kid and you were asked how old you were? If you were very young you might hold up two fingers or three. Later you would proudly say that you were five and a half. As you got older you would announce to the entire world that you were twelve going on thirteen. Your sixteenth birthday may have found you driving, legally. And at eighteen you were old enough to quit school, marry and/or move out on your own if you were dumb enough to do so.
Twenty was a bit awkward for most people. You were no longer a teenager and not old enough to vote but you were old enough to marry so I did. Approaching the “Don’t trust anyone over thirty” birthday was no big deal because most of us didn’t trust anyone anyway. My fortieth and fiftieth birthdays were barely acknowledged amidst the birthdays and graduations of six children.
My sixtieth birthday found me retiring from the school where I had taught for 37 years and going to a new school because of (shock of all shocks) Social Security. It seemed I needed the benefits of my husband’s social security so I had to retire to be rehired. When did the need for social security sneak up on me? Then, just as I was getting semi-comfortable with the concept of Senior Citizen, I was surprised with “Congratulations! You are now the mother of a one day old and a three year old. Children say hello to your Medicare Mom.”
Is it no wonder that during this decade of my life only those with a death wish would ask my age and only those who survived to tell their friends would have any inkling of what I said.
The days of telling my age on the fingers of one hand have long gone. Heck telling my age on my fingers and toes plus the fingers and toes of all my children have been gone a long time. However, I have adopted the mental age reference of a five year old.
I am now something-something and a half. In a few months I will be something-something and three-quarters. By fall I will be something-something and five-sixths. By late fall I will be something-something and eleven twelfths.
By January of next year I will have reached the age of “Shut your mouth before I max out the credit cards, bankrupt social security, apply for a reverse mortgage on the double wide, and move in with you…in Arkansas.”
Like Maxine, I have survived the Stone Age, the Ice Age, the Bronze Age, the Tween-Age, the Teen Age, the New Age, the Hot Flash Age, and the Age of Accountability.
And by all accounts I have now reached Old Age.
Better have the fire extinguisher ready for my next birthday cake. It’s going to get HOT!